


Assent

by rillrill



Series: Insurance [3]
Category: Veep
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Drunken Confessions, Face Slapping, Hand Jobs, Height Differences, Height Kink, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I get you. You spend all day pretending to have everything totally under control, with your feelings all locked down, like, ‘Oh, I’m Dan Egan! I don’t feel feelings! Nothing gets past this cold, hard exoskeleton of Armani and hair products!’ But on the inside, you’re human. And that’s what freaks you out, man.”</i>
</p><p>Post-3x07.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assent

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Bloodbuzz](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1472716), otherwise to be known as "Whoops I caught the feels for these two assholes."
> 
> Holler if you're into this and I'm not just one person screaming off into the void.

They left him in London.

Dan’s not surprised or anything. Hurt, yes. Angry, of course. But he should have seen this coming a mile away. It’s just – he’s made so many fucking mistakes lately. He’s not even sure which ones have already come to light, and which are still lurking out there, just waiting for the perfect time to ruin his life.

He’s sitting in the shitty airport bar at Heathrow, hunched over a scotch and soda like a sad cartoon of a road-warrior political hack, even sporting a two-day shadow that is threatening to turn into a salt-and-pepper scruff. He’s got an hour before his flight leaves, and he intends to drink himself into a stupor, pop a Xanax as soon as his overhead baggage is stowed, and be dead to the world by the time the plane reaches cruising altitude. This plane ticket cost some ludicrous sum of money; he took a cab straight to the airport as soon as he was discharged and bought the cheapest available ticket back to D.C.

It was a bulkhead seat. He flew here on Air Force 2, campaign manager to the next President of the United States, and he's leaving in coach, his wrist still stinging from the three times the nurse had fucked up drawing blood the previous day. “This is what’s wrong with socialized healthcare,” he mutters, wincing as he sets down his glass on the bar and bends to pick up his laptop bag from where he’d hung it beneath the counter.

“I wouldn’t throw stones at the British health care system, Danny.” The voice is stomach-joltingly familiar and Dan immediately groans. As he straightens up, Jonah is leaning against the bar, the strap of his own carry-on thrown over one shoulder jauntily. He’d probably practiced posing like a continental in a mirror at home. “It’s not their fault modern medicine has yet to invent a cure for being a massive taint.”

“Fuck off.” Dan wastes no time with formalities. “I’m surprised security even let you through to the gate. The fuck do you want?”

“Only to see your shining face.” Jonah makes no move to fuck off, and instead plops down on the seat beside Dan’s, dropping his bag to the floor. He flags down the bartender, a grey-faced old man who Dan thinks could be an extra in a film about the desolation of the English middle class, and orders a vodka cranberry. “Tell me, Dan. How are you holding up? Completely heartbroken? World crumbling around you? Considering taking a flying leap off Big Ben?”

Dan exhales and puts both elbows on the bar, and presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets until he sees stars. “I’m really not in the mood,” he mutters. “Seriously, fuck off.”

The bartender slides Jonah’s drink across the counter, and Jonah lays down a ten as he picks it up. “What’s the matter, Danniwah? Cat got your tongue, eh?” He’s using that obnoxious English accent again, the one Dan can tell he picked up from watching, like, _In Bruges_ on cable a few times too many or something, and it’s all Dan can do to keep himself from grabbing Jonah’s hair and smashing his stupid fucking face into the bar. But getting arrested at the airport would be the absolute worst capper to this shitstain of a trip, so he just shakes his head and downs his drink in a single go.

Jonah, to his credit, seems to realize that this is an opportune moment to shut up.

“I’d like another one of these,” Dan tells the bartender.

“Doubles just a dollar more,” the bartender replies.

“Good.” Dan flicks through his phone, checking his email listlessly, as Jonah lingers next to him. He’s staring at the bottom of his glass, all tense and tired-looking, like _he_ was the one who just lost the job he’d worked his entire life for.

“I’m sorry,” Jonah says suddenly, and it’s so unexpected that Dan chokes on his drink, spluttering as he slams the glass back onto the counter. “I’m sorry, okay, asshole? Is that what you wanted to hear? I shouldn’t have gotten you fired. I feel bad.”

Dan shakes his head. He’s not going to do Jonah the favor of making eye contact. He can tell the apology isn’t sincere – Jonah’s just trying to alleviate his own guilty conscience. Well, he’s not going to play along. Jonah can get fucked. “I don’t need your fucking apology, Hodor,” he says.

From the corner of his eye, Dan can see Jonah quirk an eyebrow. “That’s not what you said last time,” he mutters, just low enough so that Dan can hear him.

The bar TV is playing a football game, or soccer, or whatever they call it here. The bartender turns up the volume as one of the teams scores a goal. The two businessmen down at the other end let out a series of cheers.

Dan, though – Dan is seething. “I thought we agreed never to talk about that again,” he spits. “Is this why you’re here? Trying to suck my dick in an airport bar? Fuck you, Jonah.”

“I’m actually here because I wanted to talk to you,” Jonah counters. “Honestly. I crossed a line. And I’m sorry.”

Dan shakes his head, unmoved. “I don’t know if this is some kind of Maddox thing, or just you being a deceptive asswipe for your own reasons, or whatever, but I’m not interested. Take it someplace else.” He stands, swinging the strap of his carry-on over his shoulder, and adds, “And by the way, you’re a terrible liar. I don’t think I’ve seen a performance that unconvincing since Matthew McConaughey in that AIDS movie.”

He stalks out of the bar, leaving Jonah hunched over his stupid pink drink with a lost-sheep look on his face. Good.

*

As soon as Dan’s boarding group is called, he starts rummaging through his bag for the bottle of Xanax he always keeps with him when he travels. He keeps rummaging, increasingly frantic, all the way onto the plane. It’s not there.

“Fuck,” he mutters out loud. Then, even louder, he snaps, “Fuck!” An elderly woman a few rows down, probably someone’s great-aunt Muriel, gives him a reproachful look, and he shoots her a glare, fully aware that he’s being That Asshole from every air travel story. He doesn’t really care. As he stows his bag in the overhead compartment, he racks his brains as to where that bottle might have gone – he’d even gone to the trouble of putting it in a little plastic bag, even though it’s not like he had to follow those rules on Selina’s plane – and suddenly remembers tossing it to Amy after she complained of not being able to sleep due to the time difference on their first night in London. With a resigned sigh, he yanks out his Kindle and flips it on. He’s greeted by a full-page ad for _Some New Beginnings_ and grimaces.

He’s engrossed in the Times when he hears a rustling above him, and looks up once again to see Jonah hulking over him, sporting an expression that makes his blood instinctively run hot, like some sort of fight-or-flight mechanism or something. “What are you doing here,” he asks, but his tone is flat and it’s not really a question at all.

Jonah slides his own bag up top with more force than the task requires, and slams the bin shut as he flops down in the seat next to Dan. “Flying home, obviously,” he says, matching Dan’s monotone.

“In the bulkhead? So what, are you stalking me now?”

“Clearly not. I bought a round trip ticket a week ago, while you wouldn’t be here if the Scooby Gang hadn’t kicked you off the Mystery Machine and left your ass in the hospital, so I guess the question would be whether you’re stalking me.” Jonah stretches his long limbs out, still not smiling. “And I prefer the bulkhead. More leg room.”

Dan stares out the window onto the tarmac. 

He’s going to need a few more drinks.

 

* * *

 

A few drinks later, they’re somewhere over the Atlantic, and Dan is feeling loose and at home in his skin again.

Jonah has apologized twice more, and the second time Dan waved it off with a cavalier “We all make mistakes, man. Did I tell you about the time I fucked my brother’s fiancée?” He’s got a vodka-soda in a silly little plastic cup and they make a big show out of clinking their glasses with each round. Jonah produces a bag of pretzels out of seemingly nowhere, and after a few minutes they’re both covered in pretzel crumbs and laughing about it. He can remember why he was mad at Jonah, but it feels distant and fuzzy, and he’s not really sure why it matters. Like he wanted to be Selina’s campaign manager anyway. Fuck her and her discount Muppet Show of a campaign. “I can’t believe I propositioned her,” he mutters, not really aware that he’s saying the words out loud.

“Who? Amy?” Jonah grins.

Dan shakes his head. “Nah. Selina.”

He watches as Jonah’s eyes go wide with glee. “No fuckin’ way, man. What happened?”

“Well, nothing,” Dan admits. “It wasn’t really a good time. But I laid it all on her. The Egan Offensive. Told her I like older women, and I gave her one of these –” he loosens his tie and adjusts his collar, flashing Jonah the same slick-yet-vulnerable look he’d spent more hours than he’d ever admit perfecting in the bathroom mirror. “She was so into it. I coulda fucked her right there in her office.”

“Holy shit.” Jonah looks both psyched and a little turned-on by the visual. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed in you, Danny.”

“Ugh, don’t call me Danny. The only person who calls me that is my mother.” Dan takes another sip of his drink. “I had an ex who used that name all the time. Total boner-killer. It’s like having someone yell your full name when you’re about to come. All I can think about is my mom.”

Jonah laughs. “Nobody’s ever yelled my full name.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“No way. I’m not telling you.”

“That means it’s something stupid.” Dan gives Jonah a knowing look. “It’s totally something stupid.”

“It’s nothing stupid,” Jonah says unconvincingly. “I just don’t like it.”

“Dude, it’s a matter of public record. If this fucking plane had wi-fi, I’d be able to look it up in two seconds.”

“Right? What kind of plane doesn’t have wi-fi?”

“Jonah.” Dan fixes him with another one of his well-practiced looks; this is the one he presses into service when he’s tasked with wheedling a precious bit of information out of someone too flattered by his attention to know they’re being manipulated. Wide eyes, a cocked eyebrow. “I promise I will not make fun of you. And… okay, I’ll tell you something stupid about me if you tell me your middle name.”

Jonah rolls his eyes, and glances over his shoulder. “Fine,” he says, lowering his voice as if he expects the 90-year-old woman two rows back to be craning over the seats, her ear trumpet pointed in their direction. “It's Kane.”

Dan’s mouth drops open. “Holy shit,” he says. “Kane? Like fucking  _Citizen Kane_?”

“It’s a family name!” Jonah says defensively. “You told me you weren't going to laugh –”

“I’m not laughing!” He’s totally having to stifle some laughter, though. “Dude, that’s – that’s so fucking pretentious, who does your family think they _are_ , the fucking Kennedys –”

“You fucker,” Jonah says, but he’s starting to laugh too. “What about you? Your embarrassing thing?”

“What? Oh, yeah, I was bullshitting you. I don’t have any embarrassing things. I just really wanted to know your middle name.”

Jonah shakes his head. “Bullshit,” he says. “I don’t believe that.”

Dan thinks it over. Really thinks, doesn’t just skim the surface of his thoughts. “Okay,” he says, after a few moments. “Uh, so, a few months ago, I got really fucking wasted and blacked out, and when I woke up, I saw that I had texted Amy a bunch of – things.”

Jonah snorts. “‘Things,’ meaning your dick?”

“No, no, thank God,” Dan says gratefully, shaking his head. “More like – feelings. Weird ones. Some good, some bad. I haven’t really gotten _drunk_ -drunk since then.”

“Until now.”

“There’s no cell service on planes. That’s the one exception.” Dan falls silent, but Jonah’s nodding slowly.

“I get it,” Jonah says. “I get you.”

“There’s nothing to get.”

“Of course there is,” says Jonah, and now he’s smiling all smug like the cat who ate the canary in the coal mine, or whatever, and man, Dan is really starting to feel those drinks. “I get you. You spend all day pretending to have everything totally under control, with your feelings all locked down, like, ‘Oh, I’m Dan Egan! I don’t feel feelings! Nothing gets past this cold, hard exoskeleton of Armani and hair products!’ But on the inside, you’re human. And that’s what freaks you out, man. You hate letting people see you at your human-est, and that’s why you had a meltdown.”

“None of that is accurate,” says Dan, in a way that he’s afraid betrays that every part of it was accurate. “First of all, I don’t wear Armani, because I’m not a fucking gigolo, though I get why you’d make that mistake, seeing as you have to shop exclusively at Rochester Big & Tall –”

“You’re doing it again!” Jonah throws his head back and laughs. “Do you always deflect personal criticism with jokes?”

“Do you always deflect jokes with personal criticism?” Dan asks, still smarting.

“Dan. Danny – I’m sorry, _Daniel_. I’m gonna tell you a story.” Jonah gesticulates with his near-empty plastic cup as if he’s Peter O’Toole with a highball glass, which Dan finds oddly endearing. “I hate shutting down my laptop, right? ‘Cause I always have like 800 different tabs open, and I open stuff ‘cause I’m gonna read it, but then I forget to read it, so I can’t just restart because I don’t know what I forgot that I forgot to read. So one day, laptop’s been running for about three weeks straight. Not all the time, I put it in sleep mode, but I never shut it down, because I have too many emails to catch up on, y’know?”

“Does this story have a point, or am I just going to sit here listening to you talk about your web browsing habits until we land at National?”

“Patience, Daniel. So one day, my laptop’s been running for about three weeks, and all of a sudden it just up and dies. Goes totally cold. And I take it to the Apple Store, and some fuckface in a blue t-shirt tells me, ‘Sorry, man. There’s nothing I can do. You burned out the core processor.’ And I tell him, I go, ‘Motherfucker, I work at the West Wing. There are classified government documents on there. I’ll call Homeland Security on your ass.’ But he just goes, ‘You gotta shut that shit down sometimes.’ You get it, Dan? You’re the laptop. You’re burning out your core processor, pretending to be someone you’re not. You gotta shut your shit down every once in a while. Be real, Dan. Or else you’re gonna end up at the Apple Store, being stripped for parts by some idiot with a film studies degree.”

Dan raises his eyebrows and tips his own cup in a gesture of appreciation. “Thanks for that, Jonah. Illuminating and informative.”

“Fine, don’t take it to heart. But you’re gonna thank me for that advice someday.” Jonah throws back the rest of his drink, and gives Dan a smirk, infectious and crooked and kind of goofy, and their eyes linger on each other for a second too long before the next step becomes clear and obvious and necessary, and Dan – liquor-loosened but still utterly present – leans over and presses his lips to that smirk.

There’s an _oh shit_ moment where they’re both frozen in this position, and Dan’s stomach plummets through the seat and straight through the bottom of the airplane. But then Jonah starts to kiss back, and it’s nothing like their first time. Jonah’s lips are soft and he’s got definite booze-breath but then again, so does Dan, and as he reaches up to card his fingers through Jonah’s hair – which is also soft and smooth, and smells like fancy hotel shampoo – he can feel Jonah shudder a little under his touch. He grins against those wide lips and nips at the bottom one in a way that is probably a shade too dirty for the bulkhead row of a 737.

When Jonah pulls back, he fixes Dan with an impenetrable look. For someone who is usually so good at reading people, Dan’s coming up short this time, and it’s disconcerting. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You know. With, um, that.”

Jonah chuckles. “I mean, I’m not running away,” he says. “I’m just, you know, wondering: did the urge to make out with me come before or after I compared you to my old Macbook?”

“Fuck you.” Dan shakes his head, but Jonah stops him by laying one of his hands across Dan’s.

“I wasn’t _not_ into it,” Jonah clarifies. “It’s just that you spend so much time telling me that you hate everything about me. And it’s not that I can’t roll with it, man. I have a sense of humor. But, like, most of the time I feel like you really hate me and that you’re not just bullshitting.”

“I don’t hate you,” Dan says, almost a little more plaintively than he’d have preferred the words to come out. “I don’t, seriously. You infuriate me a lot, and I don’t know, maybe other people hate you, Amy told me she tried to get a bunch of people to throw cum at your door, but when you’re not, like, actively plotting against me, I don’t hate you. I actually kind of like you then.”

“That’s high praise, Dan,” Jonah grumbles, but there’s a little bit of a smile peeking through the words. “Wait a minute, throw _whose_ cum at my door?”

“I don’t know, you’d have to ask her,” Dan says. “That’s not the point, though.” He takes a breath, trying to gather the words in his foggy brain. “That thing we did a few weeks ago, um. And the thing after it, at Maddox's. I was really afraid you’d use that stuff as, I don’t know, leverage.”

Jonah actually seems kind of hurt by this admission. He shrinks back in his seat, looking crestfallen. “I wouldn’t do that,” he mumbles. “I, uh – I really liked that stuff. I was actually kind of bummed that you never, like, said anything about it.”

Dan’s stomach lurches again, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. “Yeah?” he mutters, and he can feel the grin starting to spread across his lips even as he tries to play it cool. “I liked it too. It was one of the things that I don’t hate about you.”

“I’m so flattered, Dan. Jesus. Wow. What an honor.”

“No, I mean, you played it cool, that was the thing I like. You didn’t blast it all over the media or go running to Maddox, at least as far I know.”

“I did not,” Jonah agrees.

There’s a pause, a moment of mutual assent, and then Jonah reaches for Dan’s face, palms cupping scruffy cheeks as their lips meet, rougher this time than before. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dan is acutely aware that they’re still on a public plane, and he realizes that this is probably not the time or the place. They might have gotten away with this shit on Air Force 2, but there’s a screaming baby at the back of the cabin and a couple of sleeping middle-aged Midwesterners across the aisle, so he lays a hand on Jonah’s thigh and whispers, “Not now.”

Jonah stiffens. “When?”

“Depends on how soon this plane gets us back to D.C.,” Dan says as he slowly moves his hand up and down the upper thigh of Jonah’s jeans. “I’m just really fucking tired, and, you know, am not all that interested in joining the Mile High Club in coach.”

“Wait,” Jonah mutters. “What’s your middle name?”

“Why?”

“I told you mine.”

“It’s Clifford,” Dan says, after a moment of hesitation. “Daniel Clifford Egan. It’s fucking terrible.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jonah says, but the corners of his mouth are starting to quirk up into a smile.

“Better than fucking Kane,” Dan agrees.

 

* * *

 

Dan jolts awake just before they land in D.C., somewhere in that space between drunkenness and hungover. Jonah’s playing some game on his iPhone and rolls his eyes as a flight attendant breezes by with a “Please put away all electronic devices until after landing.” Dan rubs sleep out of his eyes and squints as he glances out the window.

“How long was I out?” he asks.

“About three hours,” Jonah says, stowing his phone back in his pants pocket. “You came back from the bathroom, told me to wake you up if anyone came by with food, and fell asleep.”

“Aha,” says Dan dully. “Was there food?”

“Yeah, but it looked like shit, so I passed for both of us.” As Jonah clicks his seatbelt into place, Dan can’t stop looking at him through his peripheral vision. The regret is already starting to course through him, just as it did after their first time, and damnit, he doesn’t want to be this person. He doesn’t want to be Dan Egan, who gets drunk and does really shitty things (the first time still counts, because Gary is always harping on how 18 hours without sleep is equivalent to four drinks or something like that). He can think of eight hundred reasons why this shouldn’t go any further, ranging from “Fucking a dickhead with an inexplicably popular D.C. blog is a terrible idea, full stop,” to “Unresolved feelings for Amy, see index.” He’s already making up excuses – gotta get home, left the oven on, the dog is probably dead by now.

But Jonah knows he doesn’t have a dog and the last time the oven in his apartment saw use was before Dan moved in. Jonah was weird and sweet and shy when he brought up the whole blogger thing. Amy left him in London, with an IV in his arm and a thoroughly uncertain future. And through all of it, he’s got Jonah’s stupid laptop metaphor echoing in his mind.

Maybe he’s already ruined his life. Maybe he needs to shut down for a while. Maybe there’s nowhere to go but up.

Maybe he needs to do something that Regular Dan would regret.

The plane hits the ground hard, and Dan looks to Jonah’s eyes. “Want to get a cab?” he asks.

 

* * *

 

They don’t touch in the back of the cab. They make light conversation, all carefully-chosen avoidant words and phrases.

In Dan’s place, however – all bets are off.

On one level, he knows it’s weird that Jonah’s never been here. Then again, it’s not as if they’ve exactly been friends, and he doesn’t make a habit of having people over to his apartment in the first place. With one night stands, it’s easier to leave than to kick someone out, and he doesn’t have a ton of other friends floating around. Occupational hazard of being a workaholic. Former workaholic? He still doesn't know.

“This is kind of strange,” Dan admits as he closes the door behind them. “I’m not really used to having people in my space, so, you know, if I get weird, stop whatever the fuck it is you’re doing.”

“Good to know,” says Jonah casually. He drops his suitcase in the hall, and then strides across the floor to capture Dan’s lips in a sloppy, desperate kiss. The height difference between them still feels weird to Dan, who has to lean up to get an angle that doesn’t give him a crick in the neck. He can't remember the last time he had a taller partner, and he'd be lying if he said the way Jonah towers over him wasn't a turn-on. Jonah’s already kissing down his neck, his smooth skin scraping audibly against Dan’s stubble, and as he brings up a hand to unbutton Dan’s collar, Dan stops him with a hand in his hair.

“Hang on,” Dan says. “If we’re gonna do this, we probably need some ground rules.” Jonah nods, and Dan continues. “One: we can’t be too nice or anything. It’s too weird. I’m still not used to not pretending that I hate you.”

With a nip on Dan’s throat, Jonah says, “You can pretend you hate me. You know. Smack me around, call me names. If it helps, I mean.”

“Seriously?” Jonah meets Dan’s eyes and nods, licking his lips hungrily, and Dan feels his dick twitch. “Dude. I always kind of got that vibe, but –”

“Rules?”

“Don’t interrupt me, motherfucker,” Dan growls, tightening his grip in Jonah’s hair, and Jonah – honest to God – _whimpers_. “I don’t know what kind of privileges you get at Maddox’s house, but I don’t want to hear your shit, okay?”

“Mmf.” Jonah nods feverishly, and Dan releases his grip in his hair. “Good,” he mutters. “You think you can find my bedroom, you fucking imbecile? Or do I need to hold your hand and walk you there? Answer me, motherfucker.”

“I can find it,” nods Jonah, his voice high and tight, and fuck, this is doing things to Dan that he never in a thousand lifetimes could have anticipated.

“Good,” says Dan. “Go.” Jonah takes off in front of him and makes it to the bedroom in record time. Dan shuts the door behind them as he follows him in, and grins as Jonah spins to face him in the middle of the room, already toeing out of his dumb gay oxfords.

“Good boy,” Dan says, shocked by how effortlessly the words fit into his mouth. He advances toward Jonah, who looks both nervous and incredibly turned on, already blushing from under his shirt collar. Dan undoes his tie as he goes, flipping it out from under his collar and undoing his top button. It’s another well-practiced move, but it always pays off. He folds the tie in thirds – _and it’s Ralph Lauren Black Label, fuck you very much, Jonah_ – and lays it casually on the duvet at the foot of the bed. “That’s for later,” he says. “Maybe. Maybe not. If you’re good.”

Truthfully, he has no such plans, but seeing Jonah almost squirm out of his clothes at this is enough to make him want to reconsider.

Dan takes a seat on the bed, rolling up his sleeves to the elbow as he does so. Jonah’s still staring, not speaking, and Dan raises both eyebrows as he pats the bed beside him. “Get over here,” he adds, but it’s hardly necessary. Jonah’s on the bed next to him in a split second, and Dan cups his chin to pull him in for a filthy kiss, all heat and teeth and breathtaking amounts of tongue. With his left hand, Dan starts toggling the buttons on Jonah’s stupid old-man cardigan that was probably from fucking Urban Outfitters or something, getting most of them on the second or third try. He makes short work of the sweater and the equally stupid t-shirt underneath it, and pulls away momentarily.

“You okay?” Jonah asks, running his fingers through his own hair. Dan laughs.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just thinking how weird it is that I’ve come on your face and told you to kill yourself a hundred times, but never seen you shirtless.”

“With all due respect, you haven’t come on my face a hundred times,” Jonah says, and Dan represses a snort of laughter at this.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Dan says, “or I’ll shut it for you.” Jonah nods dutifully and begins kissing down Dan’s neck again, scraping teeth against his Adam’s apple and probably leaving marks. Dan can’t bring himself to give a fuck while Jonah starts to fumble with the buttons on his shirt collar. He lets out a moan and arches his back just as Jonah sucks at a sensitive point just below his right ear. “Fu-u-u-uck,” he groans, bringing his own fingers up to unbutton his shirt. “Looks like Maddox’s little errand boy has a secret talent. Bet you didn’t put this on your resume, did you?”

Dan divests himself of his own clothes, as Jonah stands and kicks off his pants gracelessly. “What do you want me to – do for you?” Jonah asks, in a tone that makes Dan’s cock almost impossibly hard. Jonah’s full-on blushing now, a flush spreading across milky skin from his cheeks and ears all the way down to his collarbone, and Dan licks his lips as he reaches up to run his fingers through the hair on Jonah’s chest.

In all honesty, he kind of wants Jonah to fuck him into the mattress until they're both sore and hoarse. But another part of Dan knows that is probably way too far into the “things Regular Dan would regret” category, and so he swallows those words, blinks back the mental image and the way it makes him a little dizzy just to think about it, and instead leans back on the bed, spreading his own legs. “Why don’t you get on your knees and show me what that mouth of yours is good for?” Dan says, stroking his cock lazily, and Jonah immediately nods, sinking to the carpet and positioning himself between Dan’s legs. Then he slowly rubs his hands up Dan’s thighs and nuzzles into his groin, before taking Dan’s cock in one of his big hands and sucking the swollen head into his mouth.

Dan grits his teeth in an effort not to shout, but _fuck_ , it’s incredible, just as good as the last time. “Yeah, you’re good at that, aren’t you?” he mutters. It’s not just empty rhetoric – Jonah Ryan is a fucking rock star in regard to blow jobs. He takes Dan deeper into his mouth, and looks up to meet his gaze with half-hooded eyes.

Dan almost comes right there.

“Fuck,” he mutters, as he begins a rhythm of shallow thrusts into Jonah’s willing mouth. “Yeah, that’s good. You know how to take it, don’t you? Bet you used to hide in closets at the White House, just waiting for senior staff to come give you the signal so they could shove their cocks down your pretty throat.” Jonah groans, and the vibration on Dan’s cock provokes another close call. But he keeps talking: “I bet you fucked Kent Davison, didn't you. Got down on your knees to apologize for your fuck-ups twice a day. Bet POTUS got in on the action too.” His thrusts have begun to speed up, and so he grabs Jonah by the hair and pulls him off, in effort to delay the inevitable. Jonah gasps as Dan pulls him off his cock, and Dan has to marvel at the vision in front of him – all mussed hair and red cheeks, a string of saliva hanging off those swollen lips. Dan pulls Jonah up the bed and kisses him again, hot and hungry, not caring that he can taste his own cock on Jonah’s breath. He makes a mental note to save “cock-breath” in the “Jonah insults” file on his phone as he bites down hard on Jonah’s lower lip, prompting a keening sort of moan.

Dan pulls off abruptly at this. “Sorry, what was that?” he asks, hand still firm in Jonah’s hair as if he’s afraid he’ll run away if he loosens his grip. He gives an experimental tug, and Jonah groans again, all _wanton_ and shit. “Did you have something to say to me?”

Jonah shakes his head. “Uh. No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he says. “So get back down there and finish me off, and maybe I’ll let you come. Any questions, fuckface?”

Jonah shakes his head, and Dan, breaking character for a second, grins. Jonah notices, and lays the filthiest, most probing kiss yet on Dan before ducking back down to his cock.

This time, Dan doesn’t hold back. He grabs Jonah by the hair and thrusts into him several times in a row, reveling at the wet, gagging sounds it produces. “Fuck, yes, _good boy_ ,” he grunts as Jonah’s eyes began to well with tears. “You gonna take my come? Gonna be a good boy and swallow, motherfucker?” Jonah meets his eyes and swallows, hard, and with that, Dan’s coming down his throat, spurting hot and biting out Jonah's name in a string of obscenities.

There's a moment where nobody moves.

When Dan regains his bearings, Jonah’s kneeling on the bed, palming his own erection and breathing hard. Dan doesn’t waste a moment. He pushes himself onto legs of jelly to stand beside the bed. Dan pets his hair languidly, running his fingers through the mussed coif, and, as Jonah’s eyes begin to drift shut, he slaps him – not at full strength, but enough to give him a shock. “Yeah, you like that?” he asks. Jonah’s cheek is reddening as he nods. “Do you deserve another? Tell me.”

Jonah licks his lips before he speaks, and when he does, it’s in a rough, ragged voice, thick with arousal. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Give me another. I’m a fuck-up.”

Dan slaps him again on the opposite cheek, a smidgen harder this time. “Yeah?” he says, pleased with Jonah's visible reaction, the way he bites back a groan of pleasure as the pain hits him. “You gonna learn your lesson this time?”

Jonah nods. “Please teach me.”

“The fuck do you think I’ve been doing? Jesus Christ, Jonad. You’re a fucking idiot.” Dan smacks him again, and Jonah lets out a little whine, stroking his cock faster and faster. Dan bites his lip at the visual. As much as he’s enjoying it, he wants to bring Jonah off by himself, and so he inches closer and reaches down to grab Jonah’s cock. It’s thick and heavy and his mouth momentarily waters at the sight and feel of it, but then Jonah’s kissing him again, hot and wet and salty and bitter.

Dan kisses the way he feels: like a trainwreck in progress. It's off-target, aggressive. Messy. He sucks a bruising kiss into the soft spot just below Jonah's ear - again, probably leaving marks, and again forgetting to care. He _wants_ to leave them, wants to send Jonah home covered in tangible proof of his own desperation. Wants him to cringe every time he catches a glimpse of himself for the next three days.

He pushes Jonah down onto the mattress, pressing their bodies together as he clambers on top of him. He can tell Jonah's close, so he doesn't waste time, stroking him quick and dirty with one hand while the other's still firmly carded in his hair, drawing out a litany of strangled curses. He can feel Jonah's hand on his ass, pulling him closer like he can't get enough of Dan's skin against his, and _shit_ , Dan wants to fuck him so badly, wonders if he'd be up for it, guesses that he probably would from the way his breath is coming out in short wrecked pants - but that'll go on the to-do list. Maybe later. Jonah comes moaning Dan's name, just before they collapse against each other, sticky and disgusting and not quite lucid enough for regret just yet.

 

* * *

 

Dan’s definitely hungover when he wakes up an hour later, with a dull, throbbing headache pounding behind his temples. His mouth feels dry and his lips are cracked when he licks them. Behind him, Jonah’s curled up on his opposite side, not spooning (thank God) but not actively avoiding him, either. Dan heaves a sigh to get his attention, assuming he isn’t asleep.

“Oh, hey,” Jonah says, as he drops his phone on the nightstand and turns over to Dan. “Jesus, it’s like you’re a fucking narcoleptic.”

“I spent the last night in the hospital,” Dan says dryly, and Jonah cringes.

“Oh,” he says. “Right. Sorry, man.”

There’s an awkward silence as Dan tries to find his bearings. He’s not sure what’s just happened between them, or how the plates have shifted, but Jonah seems to be back to some semblance of his normal self. Which seems like a good thing, at least.

“Look,” Dan finally says. “I don’t really know – I don’t know if there’s a word for everything that’s gone on today. It’s weird. I think we can at least all agree that it’s pretty fucking weird.”

Jonah shrugs. “Probably, yeah.”

“That was really good, though.”

“Fucking yeah it was,” Jonah says, offering him a high-five. Dan takes it, but his mind is elsewhere.

“Look,” he finally says. “I’m kind of going through a lot right now. I don’t know if that was jet lag, or residual anxiety, or whatever, but it was –”

“Dude, are you _friendzoning_ me?” Jonah asks incredulously. “I’m not in love with you, asshole. I don’t even like you that much most of the time.”

“Well, good. It’s mutual.” Dan can’t help but bristle at that – there’s a tiny, nasty part of him that secretly kind of _wants_ Jonah to have a thing for him. Or at least to like him more. It’s Egan Code: never be the one who likes the other person more.

(He doesn’t even like Jonah. That part of him can shut up.)

“But look,” Jonah says after a beat. “I get it. I get this whole thing. Don’t forget, I got fired a few weeks ago too. And you know what? I picked myself up, I landed on my feet, and look at me fucking now, son. Crushing it. I think you’ll be okay.”

It hasn’t occurred to Dan until now, but it’s true – he and Jonah are equals. A couple of fuck-ups. A couple of fuck-ups with a sort of sexual chemistry he hasn’t experienced in a few years, at that. He inhales deeply, steadying himself as his heart starts to speed up. He’s not going to have another panic attack, not like this, not here. He breathes, following the pattern that his Google search had recommended: inhale seven seconds, hold ten, exhale seven, repeat.

As his heart rate returns to normal, Dan feels a sense of immense calm rush over him, and he looks over to where Jonah is watching him.

“Look, we should still probably pretend we hate each other most of the time,” Dan says. “At least in public. And I don’t really do PDA, like, ever. So that’s not happening. And this literally cannot leave this apartment, because if anything leaks about our having, uh, a thing, it’s going to be fucking disastrous for us both. But –”

The rest of the sentence is lost as Jonah kisses him yet again. But this time, it’s slower and deeper. There’s a hunger there that jolts Dan down to his marrow.

Speaking of.

Dan breaks the kiss to ask, “By the way, are you starving? Not that I don't want to go again, but first, I’ve gotta order a breakfast burrito or something. Maybe just pancakes. And a shitload of bacon, that sounds awesome.”

Jonah glances at the clock on his phone. “It’s six P.M.”

“Fuck if I care. I have a hangover the size of Merry Old England.”

“Sure. Fine. And then round two?"

Dan laughs. “Obviously. I still have some stuff I want to do with that necktie.”


End file.
